Now can we please go to sleep?
If you’re not here for the fluff, oh boy…
OHGOD anon you shouldn’t have done that. You’ve given me the excuse to write something I’ve been wanting to do for a while now.
“Oh, thank God” is the first thing Derek hears when he steps into the Stilinski house.
Scott’s trying to catch his eye – the only information Derek had gotten in his text was approximately “something wrong with Stiles. Go with it ‘til we know more” – but whatever he’s trying to communicate with his wildly arching eyebrows isn’t enough. Derek’s completely unprepared for the way Stiles pushes past Scott and Lydia, sets a hand on Derek’s hip, and leans in like he’s going to kiss him.
Derek jerks back, huffing sharply, expecting to be confronted with a smirk, a joke. Even if this doesn’t carry the flavor of Stiles’ usual humor, it would make far more sense than any alternative.
Because something wrong with Stiles doesn’t nearly cover the concept of Stiles suddenly deciding it’s a good idea to stick his tongue down Derek’s throat.
But Stiles doesn’t smirk, doesn’t tease. No, Stiles pauses, still too close in Derek’s space, and winces like the reaction stings. But then he glances over at the others, grimacing and nodding.
“I know, I don’t know what they’re doing here. At first I thought it was a little Argent emissary thing, but he just keeps asking if I’m ok.” He turns, rolling his eyes, arm sliding to loop around Derek’s waist. It’s all Derek can do not to jump again or swat the hand away. Go with it ‘til we know more. “Like I haven’t told him a thousand times that I’m beyond good here with you.”
Scott’s searching Derek’s face like he’s trying to find an answer there, but Derek’s just as lost as Scott seems to be. Stiles goes on, oblivious, while they frown at each other across the room.
“And now that you can see, yet again, that I’m fine, how about you get the hell out? It still kind of sucks to look at you.”
Scott looks wounded and Stiles just looks down, face carefully blank.
Derek’s head is spinning, his skin tingling where Stiles’ arm grips him. The heat of a warm body radiating against his side is a foreign presence, strange and soothing and decidedly uncomfortable.
Any number of things could be causing Stiles to act like this – from an average concussion to a curse – but whatever the cause, Scott was right in his text. Upsetting Stiles before they know what they’re dealing with would be a bad idea.
The silence has gone on too long. Stiles is shifting against, him, snapping: “I’m serious, Scott. Spit out whatever platitudes Argent sent you to say and get out.”
Derek’s at a loss, and Scott just gapes helplessly. It’s Lydia who finally speaks up, piecing together the perfect amount of vague and honest as she answers: “Stiles, it’s ok. We’re… we’re all working together on something right now.”
Stiles barely reacts, paying her less attention than Derek thought he was capable of. Lydia winces before straightening her shoulders, a small hurt vanishing behind a long-perfected mask. She shoots Derek a significant look. Apparently he’s the only one Stiles will listen to right now.
His head’s still spinning. He clears his throat.
“Right, we are,” is all he can manage, a little gruff in his too-tight throat. Stiles stiffens, looking startled and angry, but not doubtful.
“Seriously? You and them?”
“Yeah.” Derek wishes it had been Lydia that Stiles was cursed to listen to. He has no idea at all how to handle this. “We have a… common interest for the time being.” Stiles is still frowning, and Derek drags his gaze back to Scott. He can’t keep playing this game blind. “Actually, I need to talk to Scott alone for a minute.”
Stiles goes quiet, and when Derek looks over he finds amber eyes narrowed on him softly, searchingly.
“Ok,” Stiles finally breathes, in a way that’s far too intimate for such a small word, that carries layers of respect and trust and fondness that Derek wants to shy away from, that he doesn’t deserve, hasn’t earned. Derek has never known that a gaze could say so much, but Stiles’ eyes are expressing whole soliloquies of “I trust you, I know you’re doing this for a good reason, and I believe that you’ll tell me when I need to know.” It’s so far outside anything Stiles has ever shown him that Derek feels himself getting lost in the expression.
He’s pulled out of it when Stiles’ hand brushes his cheek, has barely enough time to brace himself before Stiles is kissing him, slow and soft. He fights the urge to pull away (don’t upset him, play along, don’t do anything that might damage him further) and there are feelings squirming inside him suddenly, urging Derek to shrink from the contact, to melt into it.
It’s a simple kiss, not at all like a first kiss, as if Stiles and he have been doing this every day for ages and will keep doing it every day for a long time yet.
When Stiles draws back, Derek’s feeling heavy-lidded, chest tight, strangely breathless. Stiles smiles and brushes a finger over Derek’s lip.
“Alright, Big Bad Wolf. Go have your secret summit. I’ll be waiting.”
"Can’t freaking believe you!"
"Stiles, shut up and let me concentrate!"
"Stole Bela Talbot’s car—"
"That was not Bela Talbot, Stiles, she’s fucking fictional, and she was never a demon!"
"Ha! I knew you got the references!"
"Yes, remind me again how the one about shotgun shutting his cakehole goes?"
"Sam never listens to that!"
"And, everyone always ends up dead!"
"How dare you!”
Derek growls, shoves the gear stick into fourth, and the car grates ominously.
"At least Dean can drive stick," Stiles snarks.
"God dammit," Derek puts his foot down on the gas, and Stiles throws his arms out wide.
"Dude, okay! No more pop culture, just— it’s snowing, Derek!"
After a moment of smirking manically, Derek slows, turns to grin sharply at Stiles, “I was under control.”
Stiles is grinning at him, holding out a lumpy blanket.
"What is this," Derek says.
"Happy Tuesday!" Stiles announces, and then the blanket moves. It smells of excitement and simple happiness. Maybe a little bit of curiosity. Alright, so Stiles has brought him… the blanket slips, and a wet nose pokes out, followed by the rest of its owner: a wrinkly black pug puppy.
"Stiles…what…" Derek says awkwardly as Stiles pushes the bundle into his arms. The puppy squirms against his chest, panting happily, and then licks at Derek’s chin. Derek looks up and gives Stiles a look, and Stiles just looks pleased with himself. “I don’t celebrate Tuesdays. Why are you giving me a dog?”